


In All My Favorite Colors

by postapocalyptic_cryptic



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Claustrophobia, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode Fix-it, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Michael "Mike" Crew, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, M/M, Martin Blackwood is a large soft gay who loves small men, Michael "Mike" Crew Whump, Phobias, Pre-Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Protective Martin Blackwood, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober 2020, episode 91, hand holding, i am a large soft lesbian and i love small women, maybe even, minor and not described, minor but close to my heart, pretty graphic description of mike's head gunshot, there's no romance i just couldn't find a better tag, typical jm soff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postapocalyptic_cryptic/pseuds/postapocalyptic_cryptic
Summary: Whumptober 2020 No. 18: Panic! at the Disco - PhobiasAfter trying to compel Elias, Jon asks Martin to bring him back to Mike Crew's grave. Martin doesn't like where this is going.(Title from "Cancer" by My Chemical Romance)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Michael "Mike" Crew, Martin Blackwood/Michael "Mike" Crew/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992361
Comments: 7
Kudos: 113





	In All My Favorite Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings again in case they get lost in the tags:  
> Daisy shot Mike in the head and I describe what it looks like. Martin thinks it looks gross and throws up (mood).

As soon as he’s back on his feet, Jon’s asking Martin to drive him somewhere. Unfortunately, this is only about twenty minutes after Martin’s told that Daisy tried to  _ kill  _ Jon, so he’s not really keen on it. Jon can be rather persuasive, though, so, thirty minutes after Jon’s dramatic return to the Institute and interrogation of their boss, he’s in the passenger seat of Martin’s car urging him to drive faster. 

“Jon, what is going  _ on?”  _ Martin asks, making an ill-advised right and heading out of the city. 

Jon begins hitting his good hand rhythmically against his jaw. “I-I-I’m not sure how to explain it other than we’re going to need to dig up a body.” 

“ _ What?”  _ Martin nearly swerves off the road. 

“Not a dead one,” Jon cries. “At least, I don’t think so. He shouldn’t be.” 

Martin sighs, sparing a hand from the wheel to rub at the headache growing between his eyebrows. “Explain, please.” 

“Do you, do you remember Mike Crew? The one from the statements with the-”

“-the lightning scar? Yeah.” 

“Okay, well, I was seeing him, taking a…” Jon trails off for a moment, seemingly forgetting whatever he was saying. “Taking a statement,” he resumes, “and Daisy showed up. She, well, she beat him unconscious-” Martin gasps “-and asked if he was human. I said no, because he’s not, he’s not, he’s an avatar of the Vast, but she- she  _ shot  _ him and she told me she was going to do the same to me and-”

“Jon, breathe. It’s alright.” It’s not, but Martin’s willing to pretend for a moment. He holds a hand out to Jon over the seat but just receives a confused stare Martin can feel even with his eyes on the road. He retracts it. “You’re safe now, and it’s alright. Go ahead.” 

Jon nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “She told me to bury him, and I did, because… because… because she was going to… she was… she said…”

Jon’s getting lost again and this time, Martin doesn’t pull his hand back until he feels Jon’s, small and bony and warm, settle into his. He squeezes and Jon squeezes back. “That’s it,” Martin encourages. “You don’t have to explain. I’m not upset at you.” Jon relaxes a bit. “So we’re going to dig him up because…?” 

“Because I think he might still be alive. Turn here.” 

* * *

After a half hour or so, Jon tells Martin to pull over. They’re in the middle of the woods, long past any remnants of suburbs or developments. Martin shivers in the damp air. 

Jon leads him down a barely-visible trail heading away from the roadside. It’s a short walk to a little clearing, padded with moss and completely hidden from the road. It’s marred with footprints and bloodstains and what is very obviously a freshly covered grave. 

Jon points wordlessly and hands Martin a spade. 

* * *

It doesn’t take long to hit something fleshy. Jon must not have been digging for very long and he says as much, taking the hand that’s emerged from the soil and pressing his fingers to the pulsepoint. 

“Anything?” Martin doubts there can be. Whatever remains of Mike Crew has been beaten, shot, and buried. Avatar or not, Martin has some serious doubts about the survivability of this particular scenario. 

Jon shakes his head, but he doesn’t look discouraged. Martin doesn’t like the manic look about him, but acquiesces nonetheless when Jon insists they keep digging. 

They use their hands now, Martin shoveling dirt from around Mike’s legs while Jon carefully brushes it from his face and torso. Slowly, silently, the figure of Michael Crew emerges. 

If Martin didn’t know better, he might think he’s digging up a child. Mike is small. Of course, he’d heard some of the statements, logically knew he wouldn’t be much over five feet, but hearing is one thing. Seeing, on the other hand, just how small five feet and skinny really looks is another. It seems Martin’s developed something of a Pavalovian response to small men, though, and his heart squeezes at the thought of him trapped down here, possibly alive through it all. Then, he glances up to where Jon’s uncovered his face. 

Martin is not a squeamish man. He’s seen his fair share of medical nastiness and bodily fluids, hell, he’d come face to face with a worm woman. He likes to consider himself strong-stomached. This, though, sends him rocketing out of the hole and to the edge of the clearing to retch in the brush. He loses his lunch and then some before Jon can get to him, unable to purge the image he’d just seen from his mind. 

See, Jon had neglected to mention that Mike’d been shot in the forehead. 

Martin’s never seen a gunshot wound, not in real life, and he’s not keen on seeing one again. It’s not as if Mike’s whole forehead was gone or anything. It’s just one little hole, but it’s… awful. Martin looked away as quick as he could, but that split second was long enough to see blood and shards of bone and some squishy gray stuff that was undoubtedly Mike’s  _ fucking brain.  _ Martin throws up one last time. 

“Martin, oh, God, Martin, I’m so sorry, I forgot- I didn’t mean…” Jon puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder as Martin wipes his face. “Sorry.” 

“‘S alright, Jon,” he mumbles. “Just… some warning next time?” 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” The hand skitters away as Martin straightens up, but Jon puts it back as soon as he tries to turn around. “Wait. He- I took him out. He’s in the middle of the clearing, just behind us. Don’t… don’t look too hard if you don’t want to see that again.” 

Martin nods, turning slowly until Mike comes into sight. Sure enough, Jon’s laid him out on his back in the middle of the field, arms and legs akimbo and face turned to the sky. From here, he looks almost normal. Martin can’t see what’s become of his head. 

“So, do you think, what, that being out in the open’s going to heal him?” Martin glances over to Jon, who’s watching with that single-minded intent of his. 

“That’s the idea, yeah.” Jon’s eyes never waver, staring like he could bring Mike back with the sheer force of his hope. 

They stay like that for a few long minutes. Once or twice, the image of the bullet hole comes back to the front of Martin’s mind and he gags, but he’s able to get it under control. Jon just watches. He’s shaking, Martin realizes, trembling very lightly from head to toe. It’s not surprising considering the kind of day he’s had. 

After about five minutes, or whatever feels like it in this odd little place, Martin’s had enough. Jon’s clearly having some sort of breakdown, some reaction to the stress, and he thinks he might be able to make it all better if he can save Mike Crew. It’s understandable, really, but it’s not healthy to let it go on. Martin takes a breath and steels himself for the coming argument. 

“Jon, I really think we should-” Before Martin can finish, though, Mike gasps, jackknifing upright. “Holy shit,” he breathes. 

Mike stumbles to his feet, coughing. He can’t seem to stay in one place, staggering this way and that. He might be trying to say something, but it seems like there’s dirt coming up with the coughing and he can’t make anything else come out. Martin surges forward when Mike takes a particularly bad turn, intent on catching him before he can reinjure himself. 

“Martin, wait!”

Martin grabs Mike’s shoulder and tries to guide him gently to the ground. Wild, pale eyes turn to meet his, blown wide in a bruised, bloody face. Then, something hits him in the sternum harder than Martin’s ever been hit before. “No! Get  _ away  _ from me,” Mike screams, and Martin goes reeling back through much more space than he should have been able to. 

For a brief moment, he’s falling, heart beating out of his chest and lungs clenching around the promise of air that never comes. Oh God oh God oh,  _ God,  _ he’s going to die-

And then he hits the ground. 

He’s been thrown to the edge of the clearing, however the hell  _ that  _ works. He sits up to catch his breath. Back in the middle, Mike’s on his knees and struggling, thrashing around and screaming and cursing while Jon tries in vain to get close enough to help. 

“-Fuck off, leave me alone, I don’t know who you are or what happed, but I  _ will  _ kill you-”

“Mike! Mike, it’s Jonathan Sims. You’re alright, it’s okay, calm down-”

“No, no, no, it’s too close, I can’t breathe, get me out of here-”

“Mike! Listen to me!” Jon gets close enough to wrap a hand around Mike’s wrist. As Martin gets to his own feet, he reflects on how funny it is that Mike’s small enough to make Jon look tall. 

Mike thrashes harder, trying to get his hands on Jon. “Do you know who I am? I’m going to kill you-”

Martin would be worried if it weren’t for the naked fear coloring Mike’s voice. The guy clearly has no idea where he is and honestly, if Martin woke up scared and lost and covered in dirt and freshly shot, he’d probably react in much the same way. He doesn’t dare come close again, though. 

Jon grabs a hold of his other wrist and Mike  _ screams.  _ “Mike! Mike, listen to me.  _ Stop it.”  _

Mike freezes, and Martin does, too. Jon’s command crackles through the air, turning the wind to tape-recorder static around them. He can hardly breathe. Mike goes limp and Jon guides him to the ground. 

Martin’s feeling a bit nauseous again. Still, he approaches Mike and Jon, hoping to be of some help in… whatever comes next. 

Jon’s backed up a bit, leaving Mike crouched on the ground. Jon is on his knees, folded in on himself and holding a hand out tentatively. Mike stares at the ground between them, eyes vacant. A pit of his own brain slips down his face, sliding over his eye and into the dirt. The hole itself, though, has healed over. Mike’s trembling like Jon was, and each breath is accompanied by a pained wheeze.

Jon holds a hand up to stop Martin when he gets close. He points to the ground without taking his eyes off Mike, leaving his hand out until Martin gets the hint and sits down. Jon begins to speak, low and soothing. 

“Mike, I don’t know how much of the last day you remember, but I can fill it in for you.” Jon leans a bit further down, trying to catch Mike’s eye. It doesn’t work. “I came to your flat and took your statement. Daisy Tonner showed up and beat you unconscious. She brought us here and shot you. I- she told me I had to bury you or she’d kill me, too.” Jon glances over to Martin. “What time is it?” 

“Oh, um…” Martin checks his watch. “It’s ten after seven.”

“Thank you. It’s seven ten at night,” Jon repeats to Mike, who’s picked his head up to look at Jon. “Are you alright?”

“You… you sold me out. You told her.” Mike’s voice is shaky, distant, nothing like the fearful rage of moments before. He whimpers, like the effort of speaking was too much. 

Jon’s face falls. “I know, and I’m so sorry. I had no idea she would try to kill you. I didn’t- I didn’t know.” Jon stretches his hand out again. “Please let us help you?”

Mike stares. Unlike Jon, this look doesn’t make Martin feel watched. It does, though, fill him with a strange sense of vertigo. Carefully, gingerly, he reaches out and sets his hand on the moss next to Jon’s. “Alright,” he murmurs. 

“Can Martin come over here? He’s going to help you to the car.” 

Mike frowns, pulling his hand back. “I don’t need help, I can…” Whatever he was about to say, it’s lost in the cry of pain Mike lets out as soon as he tries to stand up. He falls, clutching his head. 

This time, when Martin moves in to help, there’s no protest. Jon moves back, letting Martin put his hands on Mike’s shoulders and pull him upright. Mike moans, a soft, pitiful sound, and Martin’s instincts take over. “Alright, it’s alright. Easy, I think the hole’s healed. You’ve got a bitch of a headache, though, don’t you.” 

“G’hhh…” Mike tries to pull back from Martin, but doesn’t get very far. 

“Easy,” Martin chastises. “Let me see your face.”

Mike makes another strangled noise, covering it further. “Too close,” he protests. “Too close, I can’t breathe.”

Finally, Martin gets the memo. He takes his hands away, moving back until he’s sitting in front of Mike, in view but out of reach. Mike’s breathing slows and the panicked muttering stops. He unwinds a bit, taking his hands away and letting Martin see the bloody mess that’d been made of his face. A nasty, blue-black bruise blossoms across the side of his face, swallowing a piece of the lightning scar and disappearing into his hair and the blood from the gunshot wound is drying crusty and dark. Martin winces in sympathy. 

“Here,” he says, “Let me wipe some of that off.” Jon hands him the bag he’d brought and Martin digs out a water bottle. Jon rips a piece of his shirt off and passes it to Martin, who wets it with the bottle and holds it out to Mike. “Can I touch your face?” 

Mike nods, and Martin comes closer, touching the cloth to Mike’s face. When nothing happens, save for a tightening of Mike’s shoulders, Martin keeps going, wiping the worst of the blood and… other things away. 

“There we go,” Martin murmurs, gently cleaning dirt from around Mike’s lips and nose. When he reaches the spot where the bullet had gone in, Mike flinches, grabbing Martin’s wrist and trying to pull him off. “Easy, easy, Mike. It’s alright.” He leans back, letting Mike catch his breath before continuing. “Does that hurt?” 

“What do you think?” Mike spits, but he leans into Martin’s hand all the same when Martin goes back to his cleaning. 

Martin goes on in silence for a minute, glad for the way Mike’s shivering is easing. When he’s cleared the worst of the mess, Jon clears his throat. 

“We should probably get going,” he says. 

“Why? Daisy wouldn’t come back here, would she?” Martin sits back, scanning the area like Elias himself might come out of the woods. Jon doesn’t look much calmer. “Or, I don’t know, Elias? Or a monster?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admits. “It’s unlikely, but we shouldn’t waste time out in the open like this.” 

Martin nods, folding the cloth messy-side-in and shoving it back in Jon’s bag. 

“Ugh, Martin, don’t-”

“What, Jon, I’m not going to litter-”

Mike reaches into the bag and snatches the piece of shirt, throwing it behind him into the open grave. “There. Will you two shut up now? My head hurts.” 

Jon gathers his bag, looking chastised. “Apologies.” 

Martin looks back to Mike, who’s rocked back on his heels, one hand still holding his head. “Do you think you can walk?” 

Mike scoffs. “Of course I can walk. I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” Martin says, standing up beside Jon. “Let’s go. Car’s that way.” He points to the road. 

Mike nods, getting his feet under him. To his credit, he does manage to stand up straight, but he almost immediately collapses again, knees giving out with a pained cry. Martin, who’d had no delusions of Mike’s ability to make the walk to the car, grabs him before he can hit the ground. 

“There we are,” Martin says, hefting Mike up over his shoulder. “Are you done playing the tough guy?” he asks Mike’s feet. 

Once Mike’s done making some frankly pitiful noises and clutching at Martin’s sweater, he says, “Fine. This does not make my head feel better, just so you know.” 

“Well, I did offer you once. Now, you get the fireman’s carry,” Martin says, even as he swings Mike around to hold him bridal-style. At the sight of Mike’s ashen face, Martin’s laughter quiets. Mike clings to him, pressing his forehead against Martin’s chest. “Alright, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” 

And goddamn, Martin’s too soft for this. He holds Mike a bit closer, keeping his head steady with one hand as he follows Jon back through the woods. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this. I'm actually considering making this a series because I fucking love Mike Crew and he deserved better.  
> As always, hit me up down below or on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic and have a lovely day!


End file.
